


Teenage Dirtbag

by 13ways



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, High School, I love him, Lacrosse, Louis is a baker, M/M, OC Xeffe Aziztz who is a dick and drives an IROC, Prom, Teenage Dirtbag AU, Teenage Drama, Teenagers, and a metalhead, and not based on any reality, but Harry is a clueless romantic I love that too, it’s a satire so the jokes are not personal, see through jock straps, wheatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15402366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ways/pseuds/13ways
Summary: Louis loves Harry. Harry dislikes confinement. They play some dodgeball and kiss.





	Teenage Dirtbag

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Wheatus, for the inspiration. You guys are great! Thanks to Iron Maiden for the head banging good times. And thanks Harry for your rainbow shirt, and Louis for being you.

* * *

Every school morning in the spring of 1984, a _Goddamn Vision_ rolls up to the squat, slate blue and gray exterior of Brendan B. Brown High School. Built from 390 cfm Holley carb, with a Super T-10 4-speed manual transmission and a 470 hp engine that goes from 0 to 60 in 5.5 seconds, the ivory, custom-painted Camaro IROC Z28 glides to a stop in front of the school’s main double glass doors (where student cars are never allowed), its engine purring like a sleek panther.

Like clockwork, students would turn to squint at the racing stripes on the doors, the swishy lettering spelling out _Azitz_ on the driver’s side, a bloom of turquoise fire trailing along the rear fiberglass panel.

Girls’ eyes would widen to their most fantastically luminous colors, their long hairs swaying in sync. Faces smirking, the guys would look away just a few beats too slow, six-foot-something b-ball players suddenly feeling a couple of inches shorter.

There’s respect, and then there’s Respect for the Goddamn Vision.

Louis Tomlinson, however, isn’t one of these students.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, Louis looks, alright. He always looks, just like everyone else. In fact, Louis has almost memorized the smell and sound of the car, since it’s usually parked on the good (i.e. other) side of his neighborhood block. He hears the engine’s growl like the call of the Siren. He knows the acute angle between the sleek headlights and the ground like the back of his hand.

The difference is, Louis doesn’t look away. In fact, he’s never looked away, not once, not even when he so badly wants to, the way his best friend Niall Horan has, shaking his head and spitting, “Show-off trash” under his breath.

Louis doesn’t turn away because the Real Goddamn Vision, for him, isn’t the Camaro. It isn’t even the driver, whose entire reptilian person screams Money and Privilege (Louis thinks he’s a nightmare dressed like daydream).

Louis’ real object of affection is, in fact, getting out of the passenger seat right at this moment, his beautiful white-Keds-cladded foot hitting the pavement, his toned calves snugly wrapped in stupidly pretty white tube socks, a rainbow-colored cuff cinched just below his golden, hairy knees, leading up his long, trim legs.

The Vision is called Harry Styles. And Louis wants to bite his knuckles so bad.

Harry starts exiting the car, but is promptly yanked back by a greater force. His waist is bent at an angle that tells Louis he is being kissed, and is kissing back, his pink, perky lips being licked and sucked, his face scrunched in sensual concentration, his damp curls—

“Tommo!” Niall bumps his shoulder. “I asked you a question. For God’s sake!”

“What?” Louis roughly clears his throat. “Speak up, Neil. I can’t hear you when you’re mumbling, dickhead.”

“When are we getting tickets?” Niall’s mouth is filled with a homemade breakfast sandwich, peanut butter and fried egg. There’s a dab of peanut butter on his cheek, and bits of egg stuck in his teeth.

“For what?”

Niall sighs loudly, his plastic-bagged sandwich getting smooshed in his hand. “Iron Maiden’s World Slavery Tour, you tool. Did you forget?”

Louis’ eyes flicks back to the Camaro. They’re still sucking face, for fuck’s sake. Doesn’t Privilege Boy have to park the car or something? Like, the homeroom bell is gonna ring anytime now? Of course, he wouldn’t get in trouble if they’re late. They _never_ get in trouble.

Louis squints. “When do they go on sale again, Ni?”

“Next Friday,” Niall says. “Jesus, I’ve told you a thousand times. Have you even asked your mom?”

They start shuffling toward the school entrance with the rest of the students. Louis glances back at the Camaro one last time, just as Vision puts both his feet on the ground and swivels out of the car seat. Oh God, oh God. He’s wearing his yellow shorts. _Noooo._ No. Louis coughs quickly and turns back to Niall, his face all distorted.

Niall shakes his head in disgust. “Your balls are going to turn purple and fall off if you keep staring at him like that.” As a friend, Niall Horan can be stone dead cold.

Louis glances away. “Shut up.”

“He’s _taken_ ,” Niall reminds him. “His boyfriend’s on him on white on rice. Or didn’t you notice?”

“So what?” Louis retorts. “Xeffe doesn’t deserve him.”

Xeffe, pronounced “Cheffé,” is Xeffe Azitz, son of Vine Azitz, the richest guy in town and the owner of Imperial and Vine Chevrolet. Hence Xeffe always drove the latest Camaro IROC model. On summer nights, he likes to rev the engine all fucking night long between the sleepy suburban neighborhood where he and Louis live (same block, vastly different price range) and the popular local parlor for frozen dairy treats, The Cold Tiddie.

Unfortunately for Louis, Xeffe, his Camaro, and his boyfriend Harry were a familiar sight in the neighborhood. Although Xeffe turned twenty-one this year, technically he’s still a senior in high school, having repeated some of the earlier grades. Little Xeffe had the distinction of being the only fifth grader to shave. On the other hand, Big Xeffe felt completely at ease hanging out with kids considerably younger than he, being young-ish in the IQ department, and at heart.

Xeffe and his younger brother, Fax, are also the star athletes in school. Xeffe is the captain of the lacrosse team, widely known to be courted by several Division I schools (those that turn a blind eye to age) for athletic scholarships. The school had a special case built near the front office solely to display the state lacrosse championship trophies they brought home.

In honor of the Azitz brothers, athletic types in school were often called _jox_ , and their sport, _lacroix_ , or unkindly by the nerds, _Gassy Water._ Parents and teachers celebrate them as if they’re heroes returned from war. The school even had a special “spirit day” to gather good wishes for Xeffe’s last season. The Azitz brothers are perpetual guests of honor at weekend parties that rotate through various McMansions in town with 3.5-car garages + in-ground pools.

Just last week, in a torrent of unbridled passion, the Student Council decided to dedicate the senior prom to Xeffe and his luscious boyfriend, Harry Edward Noele Styles (anagram _HENS_ , alternatively _Chicken_ , the most coveted Boy across the greater tri-state area). With only four weeks to go, the prom theme was yet to be decided. The planning committee was caught in a state of mild, wearing-stupid-not-actually-ironic-Vêtements type panic.

“Anyway,” Louis is saying, “I don’t think I can go.” Niall’s face falls. They stop moving. “Mom’s working fourteen hours a day at the bakery. Money’s tight right now, and the girls need new shoes.” His eyes swiftly meet Niall’s, then dart away. “Their toes are practically peeking through.”

“Wait,” Niall says. “Whoa whoa whoa, Tommo. Are you hearing yourself?”

Louis throws his hands in the air, helpless.

“This is _Iron Maiden,_ man. The ultimate in metal.”

“I know, Ni. Believe me, I know.”

“You’ve only been talking about it for ages! Like, I get you have money problems, but.”

Louis purses his lips. “I know, I just— ”

A tall, slinky figure in yellow shorts has caught up to them, nylon duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His curly, chin-length hair is an unsettled mess, held up by a tortoise hair clip. The pink sunglasses on his face are steaming up with small exhalations.

It’s Harry. 

“Hi, Louis,” Harry Styles says. He’s dimpling so deeply, Louis feels lightheaded. Harry turns toward Niall. “Oh, hey Neil.”

“It’s _Niall_.”

But Harry’s looking steadfastly at Louis.

“Louis,” Harry says sweetly. “Guess what day it is?”

Louis focuses on the ground, hoping the hammering in his ears can’t be heard from two feet away.

“Uh… it’s Tuesday?”

“No, silly,” Harry’s raspy laugh tinkles like feathers over Louis’ tummy. He bumps his shoulder against Louis’. “It’s the day we pick teams.”

“Teams?”

Oh shit. Phys ed.

As long as Louis can remember, by some terrible, fantastic whim of fate, Harry has been in his PE class.

As if it wasn’t hard enough being a gay teenage boy with a barely controllable libido, Louis has had to watch the various forms of Harry Styles bounce up and down through the years, trying to hit things or shoot things in unaccountably tiny gym shorts, falling down like a newborn fawn, handling balls and... Louis’ mouth went dry just thinking about it. It was so much worse when they had to divide into teams of shirts and skins, because, well. _Skins._ The sculpted marble slab that was Harry Styles’ chest was too much— too damn much— for Louis.

Plus, Harry has this bad habit of not obeying rules regarding... athletic protection. Ever since seventh grade, the boys have been issued a new jockstrap for PE class every year. And at the end of each year, there’s a brand spanking new jockstrap, still sealed in its clear plastic bag, shoved deep in Harry’s locker, pristine and unused. He doesn’t even pretend to open the package.

It shouldn’t bother Louis, but it does. He can’t stop thinking about Harry’s boys, wild and free, smashing into walls or, God forbid, hard pelvises. It’s both nerve wracking and wildly alluring. Consequently, Louis is often the first to bolt to the locker room after class is over, woozy because all the warm blood in his body has pooled in one awful nook.

“Dodgeball.” Harry now winks at Louis— or maybe he’s getting a speck of dust out of his eye. “Did you forget? We’re supposed to pick teams today, for the tournament.” The bell rings just as they cross the threshold into the school.

“Teams,” Louis repeats dumbly.

“Yup. Can’t wait to smash balls with you, Lou. See you third period?”

Louis halts in his tracks, watching the back of Harry’s curly head drift away. At that instant, Harry turns around and blows a kiss to Louis— or maybe he’s getting a smudge of lipstick off his teeth. Someone’s pulling on Louis’ arm, but the loud ringing in his head overwhelms everything around him. Suddenly, a hard push jolts him to one side.

“Forget him!” Niall’s nearly shouting in the loud bustle. “He’s just leading you on.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Louis shoves a hand in his jeans.

“I’m telling you, pluck is never gonna win,” Niall frowns. “Not with those guys. People like them walk all over people like us. We’re like flies to them.” He nods for emphasis. “They pull us apart just to see what happens.”

“So? I don’t care. I’m proud of who I am,” Louis protests in a soft, deflated voice.

“Sure you are,” Niall says. “So am I. Except Xeffe Azitz is a million times richer.”

Louis unconsciously grits his teeth. “Well, my mom built her business from scratch.”

“I know, Lou. She’s working hard just to give you guys a chance. I get it. She’s a great mom, but you gotta admit…” Niall is silent for a second, and then says, “We’re not _them_. We’re never gonna be them. And by the way, Xeffe keeps a gun in his locker.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” Louis retorts. “Well, it doesn't. He’s a show off who talks a big talk. He’s a dumb jock.”

“Jox,” Niall repeats mindlessly.

Louis gives Niall a withering look. Niall scratches the back of his neck.

“Anyway, your mom would care, if you get shot over a _guy_ ,” Niall says. “Don’t do that to her. C’mon, let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”

They are carried with the stream of students moving toward their homerooms, packs of cigarettes being hurriedly zipped away, handwritten notes being passed into fists. The girls’ high-pitched goodbyes sound above the din.

The last thing Louis sees, before he turns into his room, is the sight of Xeffe and Harry standing in the hallway, Xeffe’s arm on Harry’s hip, Harry’s face against his ear, the glint of pink glasses on top of his head. Harry’s whispering something, and Xeffe’s laughing. Then Harry turns around and spots Louis looking at them, just as Xeffe leans in to kiss his hair. Harry’s face lights up with genuine affection— his eyes spark and there’s a whisper of a smile on his mouth— or maybe it’s the light bouncing off his glasses.

 

 

•••••••

 

 

“What do you think, Lou?” Noele is saying. “Pink or blue?”

Louis has a recurring dream in the predawn, just before his alarm sounds. At first it all seems very normal. He’s at school, in chemistry class, and they’re doing a lab with Bunsen burners. He’s partnered up with Niall, of course, and he’s getting irritated by Niall’s obsessive-compulsive measuring and mixing. Meanwhile, everyone else is already dumping stuff into beakers, and weird colors are shooting out every which way.

“Get the lead out, Niall! We’re never gonna finish.”

Niall throws down a spatula. “Do it yourself then, fart head.”

“What?” Louis makes a face.

“You think you can just throw stuff together. Well, you can’t, Einstein.”

“We’re gonna get a zero,” Louis counters. “A big fucking goose egg. Is that what you want?”

At that moment in the dream, and because Louis’ subconscious knows it’s coming, his below-the-waist half gets warm and interested, and his eyeballs start flickering wildly.

Noele, i.e. Dream-Harry, walks over to Louis and Niall, and stands in front of them, inexplicably wearing only a jockstrap. Louis can see the cut V-dents of his abdominal muscles, and his happy trail of dark, curly hairs streaking from the belly button down to his jockstrap, which can only be described as overstuffed. Like fine furniture.

Also inexplicably, back on the lab bench, Dream-Niall keeps on measuring elemental salts. Organic salts seem to be very important to Dream-Niall. He doesn’t look up or acknowledge Noele/ Harry in any way. No one does. People are working as if Jockstrap-Harry is completely normal. Or invisible.

Harry and Louis are lost in their own Dream World. It’s just them. No one else. Not-quite-awake Louis knows it’s just a dream, but he still likes it.

“Pink or blue?”

Harry is holding up two very tiny pairs of gym shorts, the sort one wears for dodgeball, or maybe for running sprints. One is royal blue, the other one pale fuschia. They are microns thick, diaphanous. Just like… the jockstrap? Louis realizes with some horror, the jockstrap is, in fact, very transparent. He can see every detail: Harry’s thick, pink coiled shaft, his cute, swollen, penis beanie, the surrounding ring of dark hairs.

“I thought…” Dream-Louis stammers. He gestures awkwardly to Harry’s groin region. “You didn’t… you don’t…”

“What?” Harry thrusts his groin toward Louis with a sulky expression. His hair waves attractively around his face. Louis jumps back, feeling extremely attacked.

“I thought you didn’t believe in wearing jockstraps,” Louis blurts out. “You said…”

“That I liked being free?” Harry answers. “So I do. But since you didn’t dick a color, I will.”

“Did you say— ?” Louis stares at Harry’s mouth, a hole without any answers.

Harry cocks his head at an angle, and studies the two pieces of fabric. Then he chooses the blue one and carefully ties it around his neck. They aren’t shorts after all, but bandanas. He looks weird, Louis thinks, dressed in a blue bandana and a jockstrap.

“You’re overdressed for chemistry lab,” Louis points to the bandana.

“Fine!” Dream-Harry shouts angrily. “Have it your way then, Picky McDicky!”

Reaching down, Harry tugs the jockstrap off with a few seamless maneuvers and stands there in his nude glory, giant cock dangling like bait.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Harry challenges.

Without hesitation, Dream-Louis drops to his knees and furrows his eyebrows. Two can play this game.

“Think I’m gonna suck you off!” Dream-Louis threatens.

“Do it then!”

“Fine, I will!”

This is the part of the dream where Louis usually wakes up, body in a sweat, cock pumping like Niagara Falls, and a hand between his legs squeezing himself lifeless.

Then it all passes, and it’s time for another school day.

 

 

••••••

 

 

“Neil!”

Harry runs across the hallway to hail him down. Niall is about to go into his fifth period class, World History, but there are a couple of minutes to spare.

“What do you want, Barry?” Niall says.

“Wanna ask you a question.” Harry‘s face is blazingly beautiful today. When he notices that Niall isn’t smiling back, he drops the sweet act. “You’re good friends with Louis Tomlinson, right?”

“Why do you ask?” Niall isn’t here for this nonsense.

“Don’t be like that,” Harry cajoles. Students are straggling into the classroom in ones and twos. Everyone that passes can’t help but stare at Harry with a silent wonder, his beauty is that potent, and although Harry knows it, he doesn’t show it. “I wanna know about Louis.”

Niall narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“We’re on the same dodgeball team,” Harry says. “Can you believe, Neil? We’ll soon be smashing balls in each other’s faces. He chose me in class today! Me!”

“Oh my god,” Niall says flatly. “You don’t say! The surprise of the century.”

Harry pouts, his perky lips curled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Niall shakes his head and waves Harry away. “Nothing, nothing.” Out of Harry’s view, he rolls his eyes. “If you can't figure it out, you should forget about it.”

“Louis doesn’t like me?” Harry’s brows pinch together, and his lips fall apart.

Niall stares at Harry for two whole seconds. “Jesus Mary and Joseph.”

“Well, he gave me his phone number,” Harry says. “He says we can practice our wheelbarrows. So I don’t think he hates me.”

“God,” Niall says. “You are an idiot. A full-on flourless chocolate cake.”

“Mmm, I don’t get it?”

“You’re dense,” Niall replies, watching him. “A dense pastry.”

Harry brightens as he gets the joke, a grin creeping across his face. “He likes me then.” He watches Niall intently. “Am I right? Louis likes me.”

“I’m not telling,” Niall says. “You can ask him yourself, if you’re interested.”

The bell rings, and Mr. Gibbon, the history teacher, is walking over to close the door. Harry hovers, hoping that Niall won’t walk away without giving a clue. His next class, Fourteen-Line Rhyming Poetry, is upstairs, but in this school Harry Styles comes and goes as he likes, and he can take or ignore any damn class he wants.

Niall enters the classroom and grabs the edge of the heavy door. Abruptly, he changes his mind and turns around.

“He likes Iron Maiden,” Niall looks at Harry. “The band. If you’re interested.”

“You mean Louis?”

“ _Loves_ them. Tickets for the concert go on sale next Friday. We were gonna go, but now he can’t.” Niall turns around to go.

“Why not?” Harry shouts after him. “Neil!”

The door shuts in Harry’s face.

 

 

••••••

 

 

During the entire dodgeball tournament, Harry notices that Louis is always leaving before the end of the game. With ten minutes to go, just as Harry is reaching peak excitement and bounciness, Louis has taken off to the locker rooms. Consequently, he always misses clean up and pep talks, and the end of the game where kids are blasting balls at each other, trying to end each other’s children.

Harry thinks the captain leaving early shows poor sportsmanship. If their team’s winning, it’s an insult to the other team that he doesn’t stay the whole time. If they’re losing, it’s demoralizing.

So why does he do that? He doesn’t ever say anything. It almost seems like he doesn’t want the teacher to notice. He just gets up quietly and leaves.

In contrast, Xeffe _always_ stays for the entire lacroix game. Sometimes he’ll hang out with the team for hours afterward— for team spirit. Or whatever. Mostly the postgame is for getting high or drunk (or both) and sex. Harry doesn’t play lacroix, but he likes the way the boys look in uniform, and he likes his boyfriend, of course, why wouldn’t he?

Xeffe’s the captain, so he gets to be demanding and obnoxious, and sometimes it’s fun to watch. Xeffe’s arms are tanned and meaty, like his mind. His toothy smile reminds Harry of the velociraptors from Jurassic Park. _I was extinct but now I’m back!_

It’s just as well that Xeffe doesn’t have to take PE class, because he would kick everyone’s ass. He just has to be top dog, always. Sometimes Harry thinks Xeffe shows him off just to show him off— like, everyone already knows he and Harry are a thing? He doesn’t have to parade him everywhere? And the car, for instance. His dad owns the dealership, we get it. But Harry is a supportive boyfriend, and it’s not a big deal.

After a week of dodgeball, Harry can’t stand it anymore. He has to take it up with Louis, find out what’s up. As Louis scoots off to the locker room once more, ten minutes before the end of the game and therefore right on time, Harry drops his ball right where he’s standing. He follows him out the gym door.

Louis jogs into the locker room and plops down on a bench, his back to the door. Harry fades back slightly, out of the light, watching. Louis is breathing hard, his back curved and hands in front of him. Then he sighs, stands, and unlocks his locker, where his school clothes are bunched on a shelf. He tugs at his shorts and adjusts himself, straightening out a wedgie. He’s just about to undress.

When Harry walks into the locker room and turns to face him, Louis jumps back in surprise. Harry takes his position next to the open locker.

“What the hell, Harry?” Louis exclaims.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry accuses, managing to look confrontational with pink sunglasses tucked into his tee shirt. He almost jabs his index finger at Louis, but restrains himself. Harry is a little puzzled, because it almost looks like Louis’ smiling, which is a weird reaction. Isn’t it?

Louis crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’m getting changed. Is that alright with you?”

“I mean, why d’you leave so early?” Harry advances on him. “Game’s not over yet.”

“It’s just PE class, okay? Give it a rest.” Louis backs up a step; Harry gets a little closer. It seems Harry has lost all sense of personal space. “No one cares. It’s not the World Cup, so chill out, man.”

“Don’t tell me to chill out.” Harry walks up to Louis until they’re almost nose to nose. He pops a hip, and gestures to the door. “Get your ass out there like a good captain. Your team needs you.”

For a beat, Louis pierces Harry with his brilliant blue eyes. Then he bursts out laughing, merciless. “Are you for real?”

Harry frowns. “It’s not funny. Why are you laughing?”

“Yeah, it is,” Louis stands up straighter and pushes his nose against Harry’s, confronting him. “It is funny. Why are you all bent out of shape? What difference does it make to you?”

They’re so close that Harry can see the contour of freckles on Louis’ cheeks, and feel the laughter right under his skin, which Louis is barely holding in. He feels Louis pushing him and goading him, can smell Louis’ sweat and feel the soft wisps of his hair, tickling his forehead. Is Louis laughing at him? Is he? No one laughs at Harry. People can give him cute pet names, they can flatter him, they can flirt and lust after him. But one simply does not laugh at Harry Styles. It just isn’t done.

Harry is so angry that he leans in and kisses Louis. Just like that, it kind of happens. If Harry’s unprepared, then Louis is genuinely shocked, his lips frozen at the feel of Harry’s touch, his entire body stopping all molecular movement. His eyes stop seeing. His heart stops beating. It feels amazing, the way Harry kisses, like a tremble and sigh and caress all mixed together, wanton and emotional, deposited right into Louis’ mouth. Louis has never been kissed like this. He doesn’t know what to do with it, being handed this totally unexpected gift. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, doesn't dare breathe. Harry keeps kissing him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and cups his hand around Louis’ neck to bring him closer, nibbling on Louis’ bottom lip and licking into his mouth. Louis has kept his eyes open, but Harry’s eyes are closed, and he’s making satisfied little sighs. What even goes on in his brain? Embarrassingly, Louis feels himself chubbing up from being this close to Harry— a situation he never, ever could have imagined in a billion years, ever. He discreetly backs his hips up and retreats another step. This causes the back of his legs to bump into the locker room bench, and his bum falls right onto it. His face comes directly flush against Harry’s un-jockstrapped package, pushing right up at Louis as if ready to devour him. It’s an unwieldy, unrestrained monster. On reflex, Louis violently pushes with both palms out to shove Harry’s body away.

“Louis?” Harry’s face falls a little bit. His lips are red and swollen from kisses, and his skin has faded to pale.

Louis wants to say something nice, but he feels like he’s fallen into bizarro world, so he simply can’t. He can’t be nice. He won’t be nice. He’ll be honest instead.

“You want to know why I leave early?” Louis is nearly shouting. He doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes, but it feels like he’s confessing to himself. “It’s because you … you don’t … you don’t wear a jockstrap.” There. He throws up his hands, resigned. He said it.

Now it’s Harry’s turn to back up. He leans against the lockers, his chin in one hand. His shorts are sweaty and cling to his every curve. It’s as if he’s a criminal mastermind who’s brazen enough to walk around with the murder weapon, but has no idea what he’s doing.

“Help me out, Lou,” he says. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re too bouncy.” Louis refuses to look up. He gestures feebly at Harry’s shorts. “Too bouncy!”

Harry’s face opens in understanding. He actually snorts and straightens up. Slowly, Harry walks over to Louis.

“So?” Harry says in his lowest, most sadistic, sexiest voice. “I like my boys free.”

“Leave me alone,” Louis mutters. Averting his eyes, he scoots by Harry and grabs his clothes from the shelf, making a beeline for the door. “Fuck off!”

Harry watches Louis disappear, just as the loud cacophony of the other boys start crowding into the locker room. There’s a bright smile that grows from within, and Harry can’t seem to erase it. It grows and grows until he’s certain he must be glowing.

“He likes me,” Harry thinks.

 

 

••••••

 

 

_hey boo_

The text alert flashes on Louis’ phone. He’s sitting in World History class, trying to absorb the lecture on the English Reformation, but is nodding off every ten seconds. World History is the only class he shares with Xeffe Azitz, who should hypothetically be able to give lectures on the English Reformation by now, as it’s his second year taking it. Pesky graduation requirements!

 **loser** , Louis types into his phone.

 _heyyyy, that’s not nice_ , Harry’s text shoots back. _kissy kissy :)_

Louis sighs and smiles. **w** **hat do you want**

_wanna show you something_

Louis tries to hide the phone low on his lap. Nevertheless, he sees Mr. Gibbon darting a glance his way. Although he doesn’t meet Louis’ eyes, Mr. Gibbon’s lips are pinched in a thin line, much like his tolerance for shenanigans.

**quit it. you’re gonna get me in trouble. i’m in world history**

_gibbon?_

**yes**

Louis watches the flashing dots as Harry types his reply. What class is he in? Doesn’t matter. He could be sitting in the garden outside the front office, for all Louis knows.

_well you were right_

**about what**

_jockstrap_

Louis bows his head, hoping that no one can hear the hundred-decibel gulp he did just now. He feels his head spinning. He cups one hand to shield the phone, already trying to prevent the disaster that’s coming.

 **not now** , he types desperately. **n** **o harry don’t**

But it is too late. The picture flashes on screen, and it takes all the self-control that Louis possesses not to scream out loud.

It’s a selfie of a shirtless Harry, wearing his tiny yellow shorts. At first Louis is too absorbed gobbling up Harry’s naked upper torso to notice. But once he sees it, he can’t unsee it. It’s unmistakable, hilarious, pornographic, terrible. Sticking out of one of the yellow shorts legs is a long, thick penis, jutting down a few inches below the hemline. The fleshy, light pink color is just a shade pinker than Harry’s tanned legs, with their golden hairs. There’s no question what it’s supposed to be. Louis has to mentally restrain his hand from reaching up and cupping over his mouth. It’s horrifically funny.

With a mixture of embarrassment and morbid curiosity, Louis clicks on the image to enlarge it and take a better look. It’s obvious to him now that it’s fake. The cock is a silicone dildo, painted in pink fleshy colors. It’s realistic, but too big and stiff. Louis could just strangle Harry for pulling the prank. But at the same time, he wants to laugh forever.

**dickhead!!!!**

_i tried stuffing it into a jockstrap_

**i hate you**

_it just doesn’t fit, boo. my pen is too big_

**funny**

_i got it just for you_

**what size is that anyway? humpback whale?**

_haha. you said hump_ (Harry has sent eggplant and peach emojis, and they explode)

**ugh, 100% cancelled!!!**

Meanwhile, Louis is holding back a laugh so hard, his chest hurts. He doesn’t even notice that the whole class has gone quiet, a gaunt shadow hovering over him.

_wanna kiss later?_

“Louis.”

He looks up to see the giant redwood tree of Mr. Gibbon blocking out all daylight. Louis’ cell phone is a small woodland creature, helpless in its thrall.

“Come on,” Mr. Gibbon says, his hand stretched out. “You know the rules.”

Future-Louis will wonder whether this moment really made any difference in the long run, whether the story would have changed at all. Present-Louis, however, is paralyzed by the fact that he has lost any chance to erase evidence from his phone, under the steely eye of Mr. Gibbon, Interpreter of History. He meekly hands it over.

“Let’s see,” Mr. Gibbons is scrolling through the text messages. “What could possibly have diverted you from the English Reformation?” He stops, presumably at Harry’s photo, and his face blanches. Mr. Gibbon brings the phone closer to his face. Louis watches nervously, bracing for the reveal.

The classroom is starting to get restless, and murmurs of, “Share! Share! Share!” are rising. Mr. Gibbon shoots a quick glance at Louis.

“I think Louis has learned his lesson,” Mr. Gibbon announces. “Any messages between him and Harry Styles should remain private, especially of the X-rated variety. Isn’t that right, Louis? Next time, you are going to see the principle. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Louis says softly. “Thank you.”

Mr. Gibbon tucks the phone in his pocket.

“You can come get it at the end of the day, Louis,” he says. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The Archbishop of Canterbury. Does anyone want to tell me…”

 

 

••••••

 

 

Louis is sweeping the floor behind the display case when the bell above the bakery door tinkles. He carefully sweeps the dirt into the dustpan, and picks it up to carry to the trash bin. As he straightens up, his heart drops into his stomach. It’s all he can do to hold on to the broom.

Xeffe and three of his friends have come into the shop. Xeffe meets Louis’ eyes with an angry smirk, looking like a constipated alligator. His friends have baseball bats with them. The Camaro is cooling outside, splashed across the window display of the shop.

Louis watches Xeffe pick up a package of chocolate chip cookies, wrapped in clear cellophane and tied with a grosgrain ribbon. He had tied the package himself just last night, before helping his mom close up the shop. Right now, she should be at parent-teacher conferences for his sister Lottie. Louis’ watching the shop for a couple of hours.

Xeffe and his friends are strolling around the shop, picking up things at random, and roughly throwing them back down. The flaky cookies crumble when they land on the hard shelves. Louis watches them silently, wishing that he could call someone, anyone, for help. He wishes his mother were there. To the right of the display case is a shelf full of hand-painted mugs and cups that they sell for a local ceramic artist. Louis forbids himself from looking at the cups, hoping Xeffe and co. will just ignore them. They can’t afford to pay for all the broken mugs; it would break them. Louis hates feeling so vulnerable. The worst part is, he knows that the bakery’s rent is already a week overdue.

Xeffe comes up to the counter where the cakes and pastries are displayed in the glass case. He lays both hands on the counter, the callouses fingers from lacrosse seeming thick and strong.

“You’re Louis, right?”

Louis nods without saying anything. He quietly leans the broom and dustpan against the wall behind him, and turns to face Xeffe.

“What’s going on between you and my boyfriend?”

Louis narrows his eyes and steadies himself.

“Nothing,” Louis answers. “We’re not even friends.”

Louis doesn’t usually fight, but he will, if it comes to that. He knows he can. He’s resigned— not afraid. Xeffe seems to consider his answer, and then reaches across the counter and tries to grabs Louis, missing him by a couple of inches. Louis scampers back and grabs his broom.

“Nothing, right?” Xeffe shouts angrily. “There’s absolutely nothing between you. You’re just strangers. Right. Is that why he’s sending you X-rated pictures of himself?”

“He didn’t!” Louis replies. “It’s a joke. It wasn’t… he sent it as an inside joke. That wasn’t really his… thing.” Louis rolls his eyes, not knowing how to explain it more clearly without giving anything away. "It was a joke."

“Bullshit!” Xeffe explodes. “You’re lying.”

Louis stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, a power stance. He glances over to the sides of the display case, where Xeffe’s friends are coming around and surrounding him on both sides.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Louis shouts. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s _your_ boyfriend!”

“Why don’t you shut your fucking face!”

Xeffe stretches to get a baseball bat from one of his friends. He paces back and forth in front of the display case like a caged animal, intermittently glaring at Louis. He smacks the bat into his hand, waving it menacingly, his arms thick ropes of muscles. In the meantime, his friends are watching him silently, for cues. The bat flits easily from palm to palm. Louis suddenly remembers what Niall told him, that Xeffe keeps a gun at school.

“Don’t touch him,” Xeffe warns menacingly. “Do you get it? I’ve had it with you. I’ve had it with Harry talking about you. You’re gonna leave him the fuck alone.”

Xeffe raises the bat high in the air and brings it crashing down on the display case, sending glass and debris flying across the room and impaling the frosted cakes. The force of it warps the steel girders in the corners of the case, distorting its rectangular shape. The case teeters.

“He doesn’t need you!” Xeffe smashes down again. The loud noise makes Louis jump, despite himself. The bat is coated with buttercream frosting, bits of glass, and broken light bulbs. “He doesn’t want you!”

Louis retreats, trying to gauge whether he can make a run for the rear exit. He glances quickly around him.

“He’s just playing you!” Xeffe screams, his face red and contorted. “You’ll never be good enough for him. You’re not even his type!” He points the bat at Louis and shakes it. “You don’t think I know? I’m his boyfriend. I know Harry. I know everything about him. This is what he does!”

The bat smashes down again, causing the metal frame to spring apart. The cacophony is deafening. Louis winces and throws a hand up to protect his head and face.

“Stop it!” Louis shouts, ducking. “I’ll fight you, Azitz, but leave the shop alone. It’s my mom’s! Just leave it!”

“Too bad she has a fucking idiot for a son,” Xeffe replies. He pulls back, surveying the damage with some satisfaction. “A fucking idiot who doesn’t know which fights not to pick. And the next time she comes in to buy a car, we’ll treat her real nice. Do you get it?"

Xeffe nods at his friends. They start surrounding Louis just as the shop bell tinkles.

Louis’ mother is standing at the threshold. Her face is a blank of chaos and horror. Her eyes travel from Xeffe to his friends to Louis. Everything stops. The glass case creaks, and a glass shard falls to the ground.

“Mom,” Louis says, his voice shot through with remorse.

Xeffe darts a glance at Louis, and then he and his friends strut toward the door and around Louis' mom. They get into the Camaro and drive away, the engine’s roar dying like a threnody.

“Lou,” his mother says, broken.

Louis casts his eyes down. He wants to disappear, to cease being. But that wouldn’t fix anything. It wouldn’t fix the fact that he did this. He made this happen. All because he had a crush on one person, a person who might not even care. All because of one kiss. 

“I’m sorry, mom,” Louis says. “I’m so sorry.”

 

 

•••••

 

 

In the fluorescent light of the Horans’ early 1970’s kitchen, which Mrs. Horan would like to upgrade to the latest mid-80’s Formica, Niall is squinting, trying to straighten out Louis’ powder blue bow tie that goes with his blue suit. They’re getting ready for prom.

The theme this year is _Every Breath You Take._ In their small town, where the best restaurant is an Italian place (called Pollo Parma) that seats twenty, everyone from sophomores to seniors gets to go to prom, date or no date, as long as they pay the $20 ticket. It’s always been this way; otherwise there would be ten kids at prom. Rich kids like Xeffe Azitz rent out limos and go to the big city to have dinner, and then host huge post-prom bashes for their friends. Kids like Niall and Louis go to the Wellington Observatory to drink and finish out the night. The observatory sits on the highest point in town, a hill a few blocks away from the school. It’s dark and empty and looks down into the quiet valley of their childhood.

It’s been a few weeks since the bakery incident. Harry hasn’t talked to Louis at all during that time. In fact, Harry has stopped coming to PE class altogether. No more wheelbarrows, alas. When they see each other in the hallway, Louis is the first to turn away. He walks the long way around school to avoid Harry’s routes, and changes directions whenever he spots him. Not that he sees him anyway, because Harry has fucked off for the rest of the school year, for the most part. Anything that reminds Louis of Harry— even a little bit of pink plastic— hurts like a deep paper cut. Louis would rather not think about it. It doesn’t get better. He thinks about him more and more, and it doesn’t hurt any less.

A couple of weeks after the bakery incident, after the mess has been cleared away, and Louis and his mother jerry-rig a couple of old refrigerators together to sell the cakes, an envelope shows up at the bakery. Louis finds it one Saturday morning, tucked under the door, with no name or address, a simple white envelope with $5000 in cash inside.

He shows it to his mother. They discuss it, and decide it must not be an accident, left so deliberately under the door. It’s enough money to start fixing the place up.

Niall pulls on the ends of the bow tie to make them even. Louis thinks it doesn’t matter, because bow ties look crap, and they’re always going to look crap, because prom is a capitalist construct of the bourgeoisie.

“Thanks for going, Tommo,” Niall says. “You’re not gonna regret it.”

Louis runs a finger along his tight collar, wincing. “Yeah, yeah. I'm regretting it now.”

“Nah,” Niall says. “One of us might have sex tonight. That alone makes it worthwhile, doesn’t it?”

Louis makes a distraught face. “Your hand doesn’t count, Neil. And neither does assault.”

“Shut up,” Niall grins. “I know for a fact that Samantha Martinez will be there with her friends. Maybe we can find someone for you.”

Louis’ frown only deepens.

“Try to have fun,” Niall says. “Meet you at the Observatory later?” He hitches up his pants, a little too loose in the waist. But that’s what happens when you rent a suit at the last minute. You get slim pickings.

“ _You_ have fun,” Louis says. “ _I’ll_ remember senior year like every year, me waking up on the hill the next morning, my best friend, who is hungover, throwing up on the grass next to me.”

“Gimme a break. That was _one_ year.”

They walk to the door by the garage. Niall puts on his rented leather dress shoes, and Louis wears a pair of white Converse Chuck Taylors. Niall couldn’t convince him otherwise.

“Happy prom night, Nialler.”

“Happy prom night, Lou.”

The dance hall is already crowded when they get there. There’s the old disco ball hanging on the ceiling, but the committee has sprung for some fancy flashing strobe lights and dry ice, so the whole thing looks nice enough. The room is decorated with cutouts of pastel clouds, and there’s a line of people waiting to have their photos taken.

Niall spots Samantha right away, standing with a group of senior girls by the punch. Louis sees her too. He claps his hand on Niall’s back.

“Good luck,” he says. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Like girls, you mean?” Niall attempts a wink. He brings his hands together. “Hahaha. Lordy.”

“Just use protection,” Louis interrupts loudly.

Niall clamps a hand over Louis’ mouth. “Louder, ya freak! She’s a nice person. I don’t think of her like that.”

Louis pries his hand away. “Be good, Nialler. I’ll see you later.”

After they part, Louis walks over to see what lame drinks they’re serving, and what time it might be appropriate to leave. After all, he sprang twenty bucks for prom, which isn’t chump change, so he’s going to have a snack. He’s studying the plates of veggies and dips on the party table when someone tall comes up right next to him. Whoever they are, they’re taller than him, and standing too close. He scoots over, not looking, trying to put some space in between them.

“Wanna kiss?”

Louis has a jolt of memory. It’s not unpleasant, but he’s not feeling it right now. He thinks he probably misheard, so he scoots over a bit more and tries to ignore the person, picking up a carrot stick and dipping it in the ranch dressing. After a couple of bites, though, he notices that the person hasn’t moved. So he feels obligated to look up, make some small talk, and tell them to get lost.

It’s Harry.

His hair's a mess, tumbling wildly over his forehead like a baby lion. His eyes are rimmed in red, and well… if Louis has to describe him, Harry looks pretty shitty, more or less. He’s wearing a white tee shirt with a rainbow on it, and glittery pink trousers, but the shirt’s halfway untucked, and he looks like he’s been crying.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head and looks down. A hand comes up to rub his eye, and Louis thinks he might start crying again.

“Harry,” Louis touches his arm lightly. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

He turns Harry around and guides him along the dark periphery of the dance hall, until they exit the doors and get outside. They turn the corner to avoid the crowds coming in. Louis turns to face Harry, whose eyes are still shiny and downcast.

“Sweetheart,” Louis rubs Harry’s arm. “Hey. It’s gonna be alright.”

Harry leans into Louis’ body for an embrace. His hands cling onto Louis’ suit, and his chin digs into Louis’ shoulder. He feels slight and thin, like a vulnerable bird in Louis’ arms, bony and fragile. Louis’ arm comes across his back and pulls him in tight, digging his thumb into his shoulder blades. Harry’s breaths are abrupt, shallow.

“Shhh,” Louis coos. “It’s alright. It’s alright, baby. I got you.”

They stay together silently until Harry pulls away, not looking at Louis. Louis keeps holding his hand, rubbing his palm lightly. Harry lets him.

“Should we go for a walk?” Louis asks. Harry nods.

They walk together, side by side, on the dark sidewalks leading to the Observatory. Harry walks like a wavy reed, drifting closer and closer to Louis until they’re almost touching, and then his fingers thread through Louis’ and curl together. Louis gives his hand a squeeze as they keep going up the hill, pulling each other along. They reach the top, and by the light of the moon, Louis finds his way along the familiar dirt path, to the one open spot with a view of the valley. The few lights are far away, twinkling like islands in a distant galaxy.

Harry pulls Louis closer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Lou."

Louis waits, but there isn't any more. He glances up at Harry. "For what?"

"You know," Harry gulps down a breath. "The thing with Xeffe. I’m so, so sorry. But it’s all over with. We broke up.”

Louis shakes his head, trying to understand basic English.

“… what?”

“Can I have a kiss?” Harry’s face is sad in the moonlight. He looks down, the furthest thing from turned on. But he still looks sexy, naturally. Sad-sexy.

Louis cups his chin, and leans in to kiss him on the lips. It’s feathery light, with a soft pucker and a tender finish. He kisses him again, and again, and again, until Harry is kissing him back, light pecks that feel like healing.

“Tell me,” Louis says. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t love him,” Harry says. “It was fun being his boyfriend, for a while. But then I realized, I don’t even like him." He looks away. "So I had a talk with him. It's over. We’re done, for good.”

Louis stays silent. His chest feels like it’s weighed down by a million pounds. He could say something on the subject, but there’s no need. Harry’s doing just fine.

“I like you, Louis.” Harry’s face opens, and there’s a glimmer of a smile, almost as if he can’t help it. “You make me laugh.”

Louis chuckles, nervous. “Like a silly clown.”

Harry looks at him. “No. Like kindness.”

He leans in and kisses Louis again, their lips opening to each other. Harry licks inside Louis’ top lip, and unlike the first time they kissed, Louis is enjoying it now. He opens his mouth and lets Harry in. Harry kisses him deeply and sweetly, licks him out, explores his teeth and tongue, makes Louis feel so much. It tastes real. He’s a good kisser, Louis decides. A fantastic kisser.

“You're a good person,” Harry says, nibbling on Louis’ lips. “The sort of guy I want to be with.”

Louis laughs out loud, a happy laugh. It doesn’t matter how it happened. Nothing matters. Harry is here with him. His Harry. His beautiful, naughty, funny and strong Harry. He’s here. Really and truly here.

“Me too, Harry.” How does he say it? His heart is bursting, and his feet have left the ground. How does he say it? _I love you._

“Oh wait,” Harry backs off, and pushes on Louis’ chest. “Hang on, Boo. I have something for you.”

He fumbles and tries to find the side pockets of his pants, which are so tight on him that it’s not easy. The tee shirt gets untucked. Louis sees a glimpse of his belly, a hint of skin. He looks away, trying not to be greedy for too much, too soon.

“Come with me Friday,” Harry says, handing the tickets to him. "Please?"

“What?” Louis takes the tickets from him. They’re two tickets to the Iron Maiden World Slavery Tour, floor seats, for this coming Friday. “Harry, how did you even— ”

“Don’t say maybe,” Harry says. “Say yes. Come with me."

Louis stares at him wordlessly, his mouth agape. Harry plants a kiss to one side.

“Niall told me. He got tickets too. We can double date, if you want, or we can go by ourselves. Doesn't matter to me."

Harry’s smile is a mile wide. His front teeth are pearls, and his dimples are deep shadows in the moonlight. Louis thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“I love you, Noele,” Louis says. “You’re a cute little Chicken.”  _I had a dream about you_ , Louis wants to say. _You ring my bell._

Louis thinks Harry looks like an angel, but Harry's thinking the same.

“I like you too.” Harry untucks Louis’ dress shirt, and runs a hand along the skin inside, stirring up all sorts of terrible, magical feelings. “Let’s make a memory tonight.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you for reading. Comments are welcome!

[Come say hi](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/13ways-of-looking).

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a Wordplay prompt challenge that a group of us are participating in for the prompt "Unused". To read the amazing fics that were written by the others on this prompt, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/unused/works), and to see all fics written as part of the challenge, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wordplay_fic_challenge/works) or find the masterpost for this year’s challenge here.


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